-A Refugee's Winter-

Red Mountain has erupted, sending ash and the fury of Lorkhan into the sky, decimating Morrowind.  Refugees have come in groups, some large and some small, to Skyrim’s border seeking shelter, yet one group seeks more.  One group has their eyes on Winterhold’s college.  Though the path will be dangerous, and there is little chance of survival, they are mages, scholars and mystics at heart, and Winterhold is where they belong.

Setting: 

4E 5, after the eruption of Red Mountain.  To read about it, click here.

Tone: 

Serious/Grim.  This RP is about refugees who’ve lost everything.  It’s not a happy concept.  Mature themes will be kept to what you’d have in-game, and character death will be discussed before it would happen.

Character rules: 

Keep it realistic.  No Dragonborns, no Dark Brotherhood assassin AND Nightingale that can do everything.  Nothing OP, please.

All characters must be Dunmer (Dark Elf) unless you can convince us that your character will work.  Remember that this is a group of refugees from Morrowind.

Posting rules:

At least a paragraph of writing, all canon Dovahzul dialogue.  You’ll normally have a week to write it unless you notify us first, we'll have to know if you need more time or we skip.

Joining:

To join, send a PM of the character you had in mind to either myself or Veyd as we are co-GMs in this RP.  If we like your idea, you're in.

Upon joining, you will be added to a group PM for discussing what would normally be put in OOC (Out Of Character) posts.  From there we can talk over character interactions, plot, any posting setbacks and anything else relevant. 

Both myself and Veyd are GMing this game.  Whenever one of us decides something, you can take it as the GM's final say.

Faelar clutched his the sleeves of his fur clothing in some vague attempt to keep his hands warm, it hadn't done much of anything other than provide him comfort in the beyond bearable, terrifyingly cold blizzard that took them by surprise, forcing them to take refuge in a nearby abandoned tower and wait it out. Ever since the eruption it had been a plummeting series of unfortunate events, literally. Life used to be plain and simple back home in Vvardenfell, back when all he ever had to worry about was studying. Things would never be the same, Faelar knew and, over the span of the past few weeks, he had come to accept. Perhaps he took his own life for granted? Thinking everything would always be as simple as it was, it was bound to go to Oblivion and back eventually.

No matter now, that was only relevant to the past. To survive is to move on, as they say. Whatever life he had back in Morrowind he had to leave behind, and which he did, for now he had other goals. He swore he would pull through and trudge on, even if he had nothing left. In the small ruined remains of the tower, known as Refugee's Rest, Faelar stoked the fire with a small branch. There hadn't been much for resources out in the cold, nor did Faelar dare going out for longer than necessary, the cold had begun to get to him enough as is that, even with the fire, he felt the freezing winds chilling him to the bone. He had lost feeling in his feet some time ago, the numbness slowly creeping up to his legs, he hadn't kept track of the time much with all of the travel, he barely knew how long it had been though it felt like weeks, but yet he managed even with the help of the others. They would be stuck in the safety of the small tower. In this godsforsaken, frozen plan of Oblivion. A bunch of refugee's, huddled around a fire, for warmth, like a bunch of children tending to a small flame, that of which was their lifeline in the raging snowstorms of the cold land of Skyrim.

And so here they had ended up. None of them having known this would happen, nor the hardships to come, or that their daily livelihood would come to a halt, yet here they were. Alive and far from well. Looking for a way to escape his depressing thoughts and pondering on life, Faelar let out an audible sigh, dragging his head up to look at the others gathered around him while he tuned his lute.

"Nu. Kolos hi pah nol? Hi lost hin tey fah hin yah nu? Fun niin, pruzaan tinvaak sinon praan voth nid ahrk aus ko mindol fah lingrah do rahhe ruth strun."

Sannit Arsabihru’s hands dug into the firewood as he carried it through the blizzard.  Splinters weren’t much to hands well callused and bruised from the ash of his homeland.  Dirt crusted under his fingernails, shoulders singed by lava, by now splinters were the smallest of his worries.

The wind worked against him, and he barely knew the way back to the others, despite the short distance he must have been from them.  He bit his lip and pushed on, though his legs barely supported him by now.

Agonizing minutes passed before he reached the tower the others had gathered within.  Around the dying fire were faces as blank as his own.  All the running, all this time and it never did sink in.  Morrowind was gone, there was no going back now, no matter who you left behind.

Faelar was playing his lute.  The bard couldn’t stand the silence.  There was something so soft, so pure to its sound.  Sannit lowered his head and closed his eyes, letting each note be heard silently.    

His thoughts moved to the ones he’d met along the way.  Faelar he had known for some time now, but there had been others, too.

A couple and their young child, he remembered she was expecting.  A woman who had lost her husband, and the poor Sarethi sisters.  He remembered them all.  He never knew if the child was born, the woman could find happiness without her love, or that both sisters were safe, but their faces he couldn’t forget.

There were those who didn’t leave, those that stayed behind and those that came as soon as they had been able.  Two from the Indarys house arrived from Cyrodiil, one the son of a count, Farwil.  He had come with his own knights, protecting refugees from fleeing wildlife and cutpurses seeing easy targets. 

The other came because of the destruction of his home city, Vivec.  Indarys Dreyns Nelvayn was his name.  He was among the ones searching the rubble for survivors, tracing down those who had fled to nearby caves and Daedric ruins.

And a woman.  He never caught her name, but it was said she led hundreds of Dunmer out of Morrowind, Three bless her.

Sannit stood to drop the wood into the fire, stoking it with an old stave that had found it’s way to his possession. 

The bard then asked where everyone was from, trying his best to start up any sort of conversation.  As expected, not a word was said, and so Sannit was the one to speak. 

“Zu'u kiin dilonyol kiir.  Brodi wundun eruvosse, zu'u ni mindok nust lahney...”

He looked around at the faces before him.  He may have left his tribe long before the Tribunal forsook their home, but these people, these fellow refugees were his tribe now. 

“Wo tinvaak nu?”